


Antedate

by duplicity



Series: Prompt Fills [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, POV Tom Riddle, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, not hella romance focused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26577031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: From infancy, Tom Riddle had a habit of touching his left forearm.Just below the inside of the wrist, fingers trailing down the pale, sensitive skin, brushing along the visible veins right down to the ever-flickering black ink that signified—Signified what, exactly, Tom did not know, and by the time he was old enough to question it, he was also old enough to know better than to ask.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Prompt Fills [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686931
Comments: 48
Kudos: 377





	Antedate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsevanffs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsevanffs/gifts).



> dedicated to dutch, who originally prompted this:
>
>> for the countdown timer i just imagine tom ogling his fifty-odd years of waiting and what if that was the deciding factor for pursuing immortality
> 
> love you!! 

_Our lives are not our own. From womb to tomb, we are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future._

— Cloud Atlas

* * *

From infancy, Tom Riddle had a habit of touching his left forearm.

Just below the inside of the wrist, fingers trailing down the pale, sensitive skin, brushing along the visible veins right down to the ever-flickering black ink that signified—

Signified what, exactly, Tom did not know, and by the time he was old enough to question it, he was also old enough to know better than to ask.

The number fluctuated constantly, the digits on the rightmost end always, always changing, as though they could not quite decide what they were trying to tally up.

In the god-fearing orphanage of Wool's, Tom often wondered if he had been branded with the devil's mark, if the sight of his own skin was enough to condemn him to eternal damnation before he had even gotten the chance to live his life.

No others had marks on their bodies, arms or no, and no others could see the numbers Tom had etched into his skin, the ink pressed so deep that even the most vigorous rubbing, the most scalding hot water could not remove.

And so for years Tom went on, knowing he was different but not knowing _why,_ until the fateful day his magic came to life. It gave him a purpose, gave him a real reason for the chain of numbers scrawled like a hateful brand across his forearm.

Tom watched the numbers carefully, made note of when and where they changed. Unfortunately, he saw no pattern, no relation to the strange forces under his command.

But he knew, now, that his mark had meaning, as much meaning as the devious tricks he played on the other children, as much meaning as the pet rabbit he strung up from the ceiling rafters.

Tom watched the number on his arm increase, decrease, never holding steady for more than a second. What never changed was the scale of it:

_One billion, four-hundred million._

There were quite a few digits leftover, but the first few were always the same. Whatever this number was, whatever it meant, it meant something _big._ Tom was certain he was destined for big things, that he was marked for greatness, for accomplishing the impossible.

There would come a time, he believed, when his number would appear to him with great clarity, the mystery lingering no longer, the fantastical extent of his life fulfilled and confirmed by the strangeness of his skin.

When Tom turned eleven years old at the end of 1937, the number froze.

Tom had only been gazing at his forearm by chance, counting down the seconds till the new year along with the rest of the orphanage, idly pondering the oddness of time.

One billion, four-hundred and nineteen million, with some thousands left over.

In the distance, outside the privacy of his room, Tom could hear the joyous cries that welcomed the new year, but his eyes were fixed, hungrily, greedily, on the number.

The number, previously paused, that was now ticking down slowly, second by second, leading him to some indeterminable fate.

* * *

For some time, Tom's previous habits continued. He would check his arm every so often, as one would when seeking the time on the face of their wristwatch, only now there was no difference to it. There was only the reminder: whatever he was expecting, it was not to come for quite some time.

Tom had attempted the maths required to solve the puzzle of his number, only the vastness of it meant he was prone to more mistakes.

Partway through this excruciating process it at last occurred to him that the result of this number could spell either disaster or good fortune in equal measure.

Shortly after that, following a particularly authoritative church session, Tom's thoughts took a morbid turn, spiralling into worries of illness and death and the hellfire Mrs. Cole swore up and down he was born from.

Tom returned to his problem with renewed panic, writing up the numbers again and again until he was sure there could be no mistake—

It did not help that, while he wrote, his wrist was often within view, the ticking numbers peeking out from his shirt cuff. His arm braced on the table, Tom scribbled out numbers in ink that bled just as dark as his own, leaving marks on the page that were just as permanent and irreversible.

Then, once he had confirmed and confirmed again, the dread building thick and nauseous in his stomach, making his head dizzy with lightheadedness, Tom slumped back in his chair. He was drained, physically and emotionally, and so he barely had it in him to muster up any sort of emotional response.

If this number held true, then he had nearly forty-three years until the time would run out.

Despite his fear of dying, the agony of waiting bothered Tom more. Forty-three years to discover what it meant, to know if his life here had been limited all along.

Tom spent the next few months in the throes of indecisive agony, his temper worsening with each shifting digit. He rubbed at his arm with increasing frequency; he was itching out of his own skin.

When he lay in bed at night, his arm would crawl with the phantom sensations. Even though Tom had never felt the changes before, he imagined he now could, and he hated it.

The desire to shred the numbers away was tempting, to find a way to tear the skin off his own limb, to free himself from the horrible power the numbers held over him.

Winter passed into spring passed into summer. No further clues revealed themselves, and Tom was nearing his wit's end, his sanity unwinding from its coil, frayed all around the edges like ragged, torn fabric.

Tom led Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop into the cave by the sea, intent on proving to them just what he was capable of, intent on reassuring himself that he was powerful enough to care for himself, to _save_ himself from his uncertain fate, whatever it might be.

Upon his return to Wool's, however, Tom felt no better. His insides remained twisted up in complicated knots, and his eyes continued to stray, in spite of his best efforts, to the black ink of his arm.

This unease carried Tom in a current of misery and hollowness until the day Professor Albus Dumbledore arrived on the doorstep of Wool's Orphanage.

* * *

Tom sat through his mistrust and discontent while the auburn-haired man introduced himself as a wizard. A _wizard,_ yes, and a professor on top of that.

Panic curled in Tom's throat like a greedy leech, holding his breath captive, letting him speak only to accuse, to release his anger and fear and frustration on this man who had _no right_ to know as much about Tom as he did.

And then, just as Tom was about to let his temper get away with him—

"I suppose you must wonder, as most Muggleborns do, the meaning of the numbers on your forearm?"

This comment drew Tom up short, freezing his anger into something colder, _sharper._ More dangerous, even.

For here was the problem that had plagued Tom all his life, and here was the opportunity for answers, offered by the hand Tom would sooner bite off than shake peacefully.

"Yes," Tom said. "Sir," he added, gritting the word out as politely as he could.

The seconds flowed slower as Dumbledore smiled, pensive, like he was thinking over his answer, and Tom wanted to wring those horrid plum robes like a hand towel, tight as a noose around the neck.

"Your soulmark is unique to you, visible only to those with magic, and is as precious as the very magic that lives in your core."

Tom had heard much about the soul prior to this incongruous meeting, and to know now that the numbers he had loathed fearing were tied to such an integral part of him did his twisting insides no favours.

"What does it mean?" Tom asked, uncaring that his tone was edging on impertinence. _"What does it mean?"_

What it meant, Tom learned, was that there was one final element tied to his soul.

A soulmate.

* * *

Hogwarts was a safe haven in many ways. Tom flourished there, besting those from even the most prestigious of families. His magic was strong, his mind was sharp. He was incredible, unstoppable, and everyone who knew him would have said he was destined for greatness.

Tom accepted the praise with a humble smile, adopted the role of charming school boy in front of his professors. With his classmates and friends, he was friendly and always willing to lend a hand. He kept his sleeves rolled down in public; a bad habit that was noted by those perceptive eyes in Slytherin house. In private, his dormmates gazed upon him with empathetic eyes; he snapped at them until they stopped, understanding that their pity was not welcome.

All the while, the seconds on his arm ticked down, the years melting away.

_Forty-two years to go._

There were 31,536,000 seconds in a year. Tom had the mathematics of it down to an art form. He was older now, and wiser, but his fear had failed to abate.

When Tom thought of how long he had to wait, he despaired. By the time he met his soulmate, he would be in his fifties. He would be an old man, weakened by time, and who knew how long they would have together then?

There was someone out there who was his. Who was _meant_ to be his. Someone perfect for him. Tom thought about them often. He imagined their voice in his head whispering soft, heartfelt words of reassurance and praise. His heart longed for this person who was unknown yet familiar. 

Already they were more dear to him than anyone he had ever met. He would cherish them, prize them above all the rest, leave no doubt as to where his loyalty and affection lay. And they would adore him in return, would support him in his ambitions, would shield him from harm, even if that would prove unnecessary. Tom would keep them both safe, of course.

But before he focused on that, he had to keep himself safe. Life was dangerous, moreso in the midst of two raging wars, magical and Muggle. Though Hogwarts was far removed from both, Wool’s was not. 

Tom’s greatest fear—never meeting his soulmate—took a new, frightening turn.

He could not die before he met his soulmate. His other half, his quintessential half—he needed them. He felt incomplete. There were pieces of him missing, ragged portions of his soul that required mending. 

How could he die before he became whole? There was more he needed to know about his soulmate: their name, the colour of their eyes, the way they took their tea in the morning. Just how beautiful they would be when they fit together, two destined souls?

Tom was enamoured, infatuated with the idea of it. He vowed his vision would come to reality no matter the cost. He kept a diary of his progress, filled it with promises and sweet words that one day he would speak aloud. His devotion ran stronger with each passing year of time inscribed on his arm. He would deliver the proof of his love to his soulmate in due time.

* * *

Immortality was the best solution. The only proper solution. Tom’s friends often spoke of dark wizards who sought immortality—Grindelwald was even one of them, if the rumors were true. Tom would seek it, too, and he would not seek it only for himself. When he uncovered a way to cheat death, it would be a method he could share. Forty years would be made insignificant in the face of an eternity with his soulmate.

What was death, other than another obstacle to be beaten aside? Tom would crush death underfoot, would assure his personal power and success. Then he would be prepared for when his soulmate came to greet him.

_Look at how I have brought the world to heel for you. For us. Neither time nor death can keep us apart._

His soulmate would thank him for paving the way for their eternal love.

Tom watched the seconds on his arm.

_Forty-one years._

* * *

Tom murdered Myrtle Warren during his fifth year of Hogwarts. 

The Basilisk was there, and Myrtle was there, and she had seen _too much._ Even Tom could not talk his way out of this. There would be inquiries and Pensieves, and Albus _fucking_ Dumbledore. 

Acting on impulse, he silenced her, froze her, kept her in place while he tried, desperately, to _think._

He was sixteen. There was every chance in the world they would try him as an adult, as a wizard almost of age. He could go to Azkaban for this, as Myrtle had pointed out to him. He would be made to rot in prison with the Dementors, with the scraps of his soul pulled from his body. With all happy thoughts of his soulmate robbed from his heart.

It was unallowable. The mere idea of it was torment. The ink on his arm itched and crawled with fear that scraped at his insides, dread as cold as ice forming in the pit of his stomach. Tom glanced at his arm. He had to survive. It had to be done.

_Thirty-eight years, two months, nineteen days._

Every moment he spent alone was agony. He was unmoored, unhinged. He needed his soulmate, needed the fulfilment they would provide him.

Tom gave the order, knowing he had no choice. He had _no choice—_

When it was done, when the Basilisk had returned to its chamber and the body had been left to rot in the bathroom and Tom had cradled his diary to his chest, shaking and shaking and shaking—

His bones were rattling clean out of his body, his breath coming in gasping pants. It took a while for him to recover enough to stand on his own.

It was done. He had done it, and he would not permit himself to regret it.

_Look at what I’ve done,_ he thought nonsensically. _Look at what I’ve done for you, my love._

Tom was numb and feverish, but he did not feel it as he walked to his common room. He smiled at his housemates and waved their greetings away. He entered his dorm room and collapsed on his bed, spelling the bed hangings shut and warding them against intruders.

His diary was pressed against his chest, hidden in his robe pocket. Tom retrieved it and held it up. There was a fragment of his soul pressed into these pages. He felt less whole than he ever had, the edges of himself tattered ribbons in the wind, reaching out for someone who had yet to arrive.

He would be whole someday. Someday. Someday.

Tom lay in bed until midnight struck, diary in hand, imagining the pulse of life that beat inside of it.

_Thirty-eight years, two months, eighteen days._

How much of him would be missing by then?

* * *

That summer, Tom visited Little Hangleton. A short walk from there was the Gaunt house—if that dilapidated shack could even be considered a house. The numbers on his arm burned like a warning. Tom had not known what to expect when he met his mother’s relatives, but coming face to face with his uncle, he thought the subtle warning rather accurate.

Morfin Gaunt. Sunken face, rotten teeth, dressed in rags. When Morfin spoke, Tom had to resist the urge to step back out of sheer disgust.

“I thought you was that Muggle, you look mighty like that Muggle.”

This was where Tom had come from. The pureblood line of Gaunt had been reduced to this snivelling excuse for a wizard. Well, no longer. Tom would be the best of them all, the best since Salazar himself, and then even better, once he had grown into his magic and his power.

“What Muggle?” Tom asked. Dread was sliding up his spine, an awful creeping sensation that refused to leave no matter how much he ignored it.

“That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way, you look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in 'e? He's older 'n you, now I think on it... he come back, see.”

His father was in Little Hangleton? “What do you mean, he’s come back?” 

“Stupid slut thinking he was her soulmate. Kept on ‘bout it. No such thing.” Morfin continued grumbling, the words incoherent as he stumbled over to where Tom assumed the alcohol was kept. 

It took Morfin a few moments to get the cabinet open. As the man moved, Tom noticed a large stretch of scarring concentrated on Morfin’s forearm. There was a long minute filled only with the noise of glass bottles as Tom stared at the skin there—clearly an old wound—located where the man’s mark ought to have been.

Had Morfin done that to himself? Tom had a suspicion of the answer, given the man’s ignorance.

No matter. He had the information he had come here for. It was time to leave this hovel and find where the Riddles lived in Little Hangleton.

* * *

With his uncle’s ring on his hand and his uncle’s wand stashed in his coat pocket, Tom knocked on the door of Riddle Manor. His chest was tight, trembling, his hands cold and unfeeling. This was where his father lived. A man of wealth and power—things that Tom deserved and had been forced to go without. But there was a chance, here, to see what had become of Tom Riddle Senior. The man Tom had been named after.

Tom had asked around the little town before coming to this doorstep. He had teased the story out of the gossiping locals. He had smiled through those comments about his appearance. For here was the truth his mother had left with him before she departed: Tom Riddle was the spitting image of his father, and so he would carry this name with him until death.

Even with her dying breath, his mother had decided to _love._ She’d had hope that the man she had chosen would choose her and her son in return. Only, Merope Gaunt had gotten her soulmark burned from her skin at a young age. Her hopes and dreams had been eradicated before she’d even had the thought to form them. She knew nothing of love and had chosen foolishly.

Seconds passed. Tom knocked on the door again.

Here lived the man who had broken his mother’s heart.

Tom could not punish his grandfather for harm caused. Marvolo Gaunt was dead. Tom could not punish his uncle, either, for his uncle’s crimes were of a different caliber. For Morfin Gaunt, there would only be the use of his pathetic life to further Tom’s goals.

The extent of his father’s crimes had yet to be seen. But if it was true, if Tom Riddle Senior had abandoned Tom’s mother to die, had abandoned _Tom_ to die, then he would pay.

A man opened the door. Tom gazed upon his own features—ones that were drawn with the lines of age, and the curl of thick, dark hair that settled across the forehead—and felt suddenly sick. Nausea seized him, the panic in his chest growing worse, making it near impossible for him to breathe.

It was broad daylight, but Tom could no longer hold back. All his worst fears were staring back at him, their lips parted, angry retort edging its way out. His father did not want his mother, did not want him.

Tom would not stay where he was not wanted. He would not make the mistake his mother had. He would obliterate his past, the ugly blemishes of his family history, and no one would ever refuse him again. No one would dare say no to him. He would _never_ be unwanted by his soulmate. 

_Look at me, my love. I am worthy and waiting for you._

Tom raised his uncle’s wand and spoke: _“Imperio.”_

On Tom’s hand, the Gaunt ring hung heavy, but it was nothing compared to the ink on his forearm.

_Thirty-eight years, one month, twelve days._

Tom led his father into the drawing room. His grandparents were there, too. They must have just settled in for afternoon tea. The family he was owed. The family who did not want him. He did not want them, either.

Green flashed three times, but the violence of the colour no longer affected him.

Tom stared at their bodies, his eyes unseeing. He was numb.

* * *

They called themselves the Knights of Walpurgis. They were refined, cultured, and useful. Tom had rallied them, had cultivated a group of individuals that were like-minded and agreeable to his goals. Tom had secured immortality; now he planned to secure Britain.

Gone were those expressions of pity and sentiment spoken by his companions. He was their leader, he had power they knew not. He would meet his soulmate with grace, and he would live his life to its fullest extent.

There were no limits left to him. There was the chase of time, the ticking of the clock, but Tom had learned to accept the distance. To appreciate it, even. He would use this time to build a nation. _He would not be refused, then—_

The path he had chosen was dangerous, but it was necessary. Both for himself, and for his destined half.

Tom discarded his name, rid himself of that lingering past that tainted his beautiful future. There was strength in culling his weaknesses. There was strength in his magic and his intelligence and his will. He had two Horcruxes and he would become unstoppable.

_Look upon Lord Voldemort, who has evaded Death for you, who has gone further than any other wizard has ever dared._

Tom traced the dark numbers on his arm with reverence. _Soon,_ he whispered in the dark of night, knowing that this period of his life was but a drop in the ocean of infinity. _Soon I will be with you._

* * *

_Thirty-seven years._

_Thirty-five years._

_Thirty years—_

* * *

There were bad days. Days when hope was lost on him, days when he was once again adrift, lost in the endless, all-consuming dark, wandering the deserts without water, drowning in the sea of his pain.

He took that pain and internalized it, twisted it to his own ambitions, forced himself to stand proud, to rid himself of the frailty that threatened his authority. He threw himself into research, into darker magic than he had ever imagined, prepared to purge his mind and soul of all that could be used against him.

His skin paled to sickliness, his eyes shifted crimson. His reflection was razor-edged, dangerous. This was the appearance of a man cold inside and out. A man plagued by emptiness, bereft of what would make him whole.

_Look how I have languished without you, my darling._

Years and years to go. Years and years to go. Years and years—

He could not remember the last time he had cried. The murder of his bloodline felt an age ago, the anguish of it faded only to a blistering rage. Rage at injustice, rage at the abandonment of his person. Rage at the life he had lived without love because of how fate had seen fit to torment him.

_Look how I ache, how I await your gentle hand to ease my suffering._

The murder of Myrtle Warren haunted his nightmares until that, too, he disposed of with potions and spellwork. His sleep became hollow and unfulfilling, but it was free of emotion. He was removed from it, and that was what mattered.

_Look at me, please—_

He was Lord Voldemort. He bowed to no one.

* * *

_Twenty years._

_Ten years._

_Five years._

_One—_

* * *

He had once abhorred war, had he not? It had once frightened him. 

A foolish, childish fear; Death could not reach him. Immortality had changed him, had warped him into someone indistinguishable from the child who had once scribbled love notes in a boyhood diary.

War blazed through magical Britain, now led by his own hand. He would see this to its bitter end. 

_Look at the lives I ruin, the life I ruin in your name—my own, my own, for all that I am belongs to you before we ever even met._

* * *

In the distance, down the street and along the pavement, Voldemort could hear the joyous cries of children going door-to-door in their ridiculous costumes, but his eyes were fixed, painfully, on the number—his number.

Their number was now ticking down slowly, second by second, leading him to some predestined fate.

The mystery of this number was no longer. The phenomenal course of his life was soon to be fulfilled and confirmed by the mark etched permanently into his skin.

There had been a secret delivered to him by Peter Pettigrew. There was a child, a child that Voldemort now sought on this All Hallows’ Eve.

Harry Potter had been born on July 31st with a timer on his skin that did not fluctuate, did not flicker with the uncertainty of fate. Harry Potter’s timer was _counting._ His parents had, in a panic, run the numbers, had emerged with a date—

_Halloween, 1981._

There were minutes left to go.

Did the Potters know what awaited them? Did they realize where their son’s destiny lay?

_Look, my beloved, how you were born for me. Destined for me. Destined to save me, to free me from the prison of my own making._

* * *

Lord Voldemort knocked on the door of the Potters. For the first time in decades, his chest was tight, flooded with restrained panic, the urge to burn and rage and _kill_ scratching at the nerves of his hands.

Nothing good had ever come from family. Nothing good. The Potters were his enemies, enemies that might sooner see him dead, see _themselves_ dead, rather than forfeit their son to a monster.

A man opened the door. Voldemort gazed upon the features—Pettigrew said that Harry was the spitting image of his father, and oh, _oh_ how that tugged something awful inside of Voldemort’s cold, unfeeling soul.

“It’s you.” James Potter was young, handsome, and bespectacled. His eyes were brown, but Voldemort knew that Harry Potter’s eyes were said to be a bold, vibrant green.

Lord Voldemort raised his wand arm, allowing the sleeve of his robe to slip down and reveal the digits there.

James eyed the ink, eyed the mere minutes and seconds that remained. “And if I refuse?”

“If you refuse, I will kill you, and I will raise the boy on my own.”

“James?” There was the distant call of the mother, Lily. Her voice was pitched with worry, but lovely all the same. Would her son inherit those tones? Would Voldemort grow to cherish the sound of them?

Both men were at a standstill in the doorway. James did not have his wand in hand, but he gazed up at the Dark Lord, unafraid. “It’s him, Lily.”

Lily Potter approached the door, apprehensive. Her wand was in hand. How brave of her. Her green eyes were, in this moment, closer to diamonds than emeralds due to their unyielding hardness. Here was a woman who would fight to stay by her son’s side.

“Choose your son,” Voldemort commanded. “Choose him as I have, and your family will be safe.”

Lily scoffed, her auburn brows tugging together in a dismissive expression. _“You_ choose him?”

Voldemort smiled, the tension in his chest easing. “Fifty years I have waited for your son to be born, to enter the empty world where I have suffered his absence. For fifty years I have built my power to protect him, have raised armies to fight for him. Your son will live in luxury and safety, and you need not fear retribution by my hand so long as he is by my side.”

James’ jaw clenched. At last his eyes broke away, drifting to the wooden doorframe, a flush of anger filling his cheeks. “He’s only a baby.”

“His innocence will come to no harm.” Eternity lay ahead of them. Lord Voldemort could be patient, could love the boy with the delicacy the situation required. Someday they would be equals. For now, Voldemort would settle for feeling whole.

“James.” Lily touched her husband’s shoulder, a plea for him to quiet himself. Then she shut her eyes, her head dropping down. There was the weight of decades in that motion—certainly it did not suit a woman in her early twenties.

Voldemort waited, curious, to see what would be said.

When Lily Potter opened her eyes, they were filled with great clarity. “Do you love him?”

The answer was simple. “More than myself.”

James Potter was trembling head to toe. “Lily, he’s a _monster.”_

“The far greater crime is to deprive your son of his happiness, wouldn’t you say?” If they chose to harm Harry, to rob him of their parental affection, it would be a shame, but the boy was young. Voldemort would care for him. Harry would not miss what he could not remember.

“I won’t fight for you. I won’t condone what you do.” Lily glanced at her husband, her face falling. “I want our son to live, James. I want us to be with him.”

James hesitated. He looked between his wife and his enemy, clearly torn.

Lily firmed her resolute expression. “I’ll go and fetch Harry. Give me a few moments to pack his necessities.” Then she left, heading for the stairs.

James did not turn to watch her go, did not call after his wife for her betrayal. He remained frozen, throat bobbing with his indecision. If James was determined to die for his noble cause, Voldemort would not stop him, only—

“Fifty years I have waited for the fulfilment of my soul, James Potter. You cannot imagine the agony of it. I have been bound for your son since the moment of my birth.”

Lord Voldemort extended his hand. An offering of peace. A promise of mercy. The hint of ink was visible once again. The last of those seconds counting down towards the inevitable, towards the delivery of his soulmate into his arms.

“He is your son. He deserves a father. Do not abandon him, or he will never forgive you for it.”

Upstairs, Lily was walking about the nursery, packing her son’s things. Her footsteps thudded lightly above their heads. She was determined not to regret her decision.

James took a breath, then let it out. “If it means Harry will grow up safe…”

“I will protect him with my life.” Immortal as he was, this vow was easy to make, but—

Voldemort had never laid eyes on the boy, on his soulmate. Yet he knew if there was ever a choice—Harry’s life or his own—he would choose Harry. He would choose Harry without hesitation, without fail, for Harry was everything he was not. 

Harry was all that was good and innocent in the world, and Voldemort would protect his precious soulmate with his dying breath, if it came to that.

James Potter read the conviction in Voldemort’s eyes. His shoulders relaxed by the slightest of degrees, and his palm stretched out, meeting Voldemort’s own in a brief shake.

“Then I suppose you have yourself a deal.”

* * *

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One—_

* * *

**Sixteen Years Later**

* * *

Harry clattered noisily up the stairs, well aware that he could have chosen to Apparate. Something about the rush of steps beneath his feet could not be matched—Harry was running to where he needed to be. Where he belonged.

The door was open when he arrived, signifying his welcome entrance.

“Vee?”

Voldemort was there by the window, gazing out at the grounds. Harry stopped a pace away and reached for the man’s elbow. As they made contact, a warm, pleasant sensation spread throughout Harry’s chest. He never felt more safe than he did when he was around Voldemort.

“Harry,” said Voldemort. He sounded distant, pensive.

Harry moved closer, intent on soothing whatever was bothering his soulmate. He wrapped his hand more firmly around the man’s bicep and pressed his chest partly against the man’s back. “How was your day?”

“The usual. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” Then, finally, Voldemort shifted to face him.

Harry smiled. He had long since known that his soulmate was handsome, but he had not thought to appreciate it until he’d been older. Now he could gaze upon his love’s visage with undisguised affection. Slowly, then, he wormed his way closer, sliding himself against Voldemort’s side. “I missed you.”

“It’s hardly been a day, my dear,” Voldemort said, but his tone was pleased. His hand rose to settle in Harry’s hair, stroking gently. Harry melted into the touch, into the warmth of the body next to his.

“I still miss you.” Harry made a point to say this often, to let Voldemort know just how much Harry loved him. When Harry thought of those long, lonely years his soulmate had spent alone, waiting, _despairing,_ it made his heart hurt. 

Voldemort curled around him, his arm sweeping across Harry’s shoulders like a cloak. Harry lay his cheek on the man’s chest, just above the heart. The heart that beat for him.

Harry had been born for this, bound to the man whose soul was matched with his. Harry knew the depths of Voldemort’s crimes, the shallows of his virtues that were reserved wholly for Harry. Voldemort’s soul ached for completion, and so Harry had grown to love it in all its forms: diary, ring, locket, cup, diadem.

“Every day I have you by my side is a wonder,” murmured Voldemort.

Harry felt happy at hearing those words. Now that he was of age, their relationship would soon change. Voldemort had insisted they wait, and his insistence was supported by Harry’s parents. 

Harry had made multiple attempts to circumvent this decision to some success—stolen kisses here and there, though nothing too untoward. Voldemort’s patience and strength of will was ridiculously admirable. Harry had done everything short of presenting himself on a silver platter to no avail. Even their kisses were chaste. 

But now he was of age, and things would be different. “I love you,” Harry said. 

Voldemort did not answer immediately, but Harry was not concerned. He knew that sometimes it took his soulmate longer than others to articulate feelings.

“Of all the horrors my past has birthed,” Voldemort commented idly, “my love for you was the most damning of them all. I justified atrocities in your name, Harry. And yet you love me.”

Harry lifted his head to stare into his beloved’s deep scarlet eyes. “I love you despite the warning signs. I love you despite the love you fail to hold for yourself. I love you as you have been, as you are, as you will be. I love you because I understand you, and that understanding will never fade away.”

Voldemort stared at him with bewilderment, with wonder, with _love._

“If every action taken led you to me,” Harry said, “then I could never fault you for them.” 

Harry knew his soulmate was selfish and possessive. These were not traits Harry would use to describe himself, but he felt that when it came to his soulmate, they were highly applicable. Harry loved so deeply, felt so strongly. He would do anything for this connection, for the love they shared with each other.

Voldemort touched his fingertips to Harry’s cheek, brushed softly along the curve of it. “My life has always been yours. If you judge it worthy, then I will consent. I could never deny you, my darling. I waited so long for you to be mine. My sweetest love, the keeper of my heart and soul. If you say so, it must be true.”

It was, it was. Harry could burst from the truth of it. Voldemort was all he had ever known—the love of his soulmate had seen him through infancy to adulthood. Harry could not imagine a life outside of this one. He did not want to.

“You will never wait for me again,” Harry promised. “I will always be here. From birth to eternity, Vee, I swear it.” 

Then Harry tilted his head up for a kiss, knowing that now there was no pretense between them, that their hearts were one, that their souls were whole—whatever parts of his beloved were missing, Harry would fill them. He would mend the tears and patch the holes with his love.

Voldemort obliged, meeting their lips together and cradling Harry’s jaw with a tender hand, as if he was afraid Harry would shatter or vanish if the touch was too harsh. Harry clung harder to his soulmate’s robes, determined for it to be known that he was here and always would be.

When they withdrew, it felt far too soon. Harry’s face was flush; he made an attempt to surge forward again, to capture those perfect lips with his own, but he was held back by a hand on his chest.

That hand slid away to grasp Harry’s wrist. Harry allowed his hand to be guided up, to be placed against Voldemort’s chest. A steady beat met his palm. Harry went still, absorbing the feel of it. Appreciating the reassurance of his love’s humanity.

“Feel how it beats for you,” Voldemort murmured. “The proof that I love you.”

Harry smiled and lifted his eyes to meet Voldemort’s. He took Voldemort’s hand in his and laced their fingers together. The number on Harry’s arm, for as long as he could remember, had always been zero. That alone was all the proof in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are appreciated! :)
> 
> find my writing updates and sneak peeks on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com) !
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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